Comment

If at first you don't succeed, triop, triop, triop again

You are looking at a tub of what appears to be unsuccessful vichyssoise. But wait a moment. What on earth - or in water - is that? It is swimming. It has got a strange shell, like half a pistachio, on top of its body and a terrible undercarriage of fraying rhubarb: hairy, bloody, billowing. And if you look closely - very closely - you can see a fierce colon. Two black dots. Its eyes. It is called a triop.

If you are the parent of children between five and 12, there is a strong chance you are already acquainted with or about to become a possessor of this pet. Prehistoric fish are hatching all over the country (and coming to a birthday party near you). Described as 'living fossils', they are related to 'creatures which lived 350 million years ago'. This is an ancient new craze.

In my kitchen, there are already two plastic tanks (birthday and Christmas presents respectively). In one, there are triops. In the other, sea monkeys - souped-up brine shrimps. 'Thanks to new computer-driven processing technologies, and ultra-pure, non-toxic chemicals, twice as many sea monkeys instantly hatch, grow larger and live longer than ever before.' And all this in a household in which I ruled that there was so much human wildlife there should be no pets.

Triops and sea monkeys are packaged to resemble toys. But hatching the eggs resembles cooking a spartan recipe. There are two sachets, one containing rough brown seasoning (eggs), the other pale silt (fish food). Triops have only been able to survive on earth so long, the leaflet explains, because their eggs 'have the ability to enter a state called diapause. This means they can remain dormant for many years [even decades!] until rehydrated and hatched.'

I can think of one or two human beings in diapause. But back to the task in hand: the water must be pure and room temperature. Lukewarm Badoit was our choice.

Days one, two and three involved everyone peering into the water expectantly and seeing no signs of life. A swizz, we thought, but relief cancelled out disappointment. It was almost a week later that I almost threw the babies out with the Badoit. Instead, I glimpsed movement: the sea monkeys had hatched. They looked like tiny white feathers escaped from a quilt. You had to squint to see them at all. The children were casually gratified by the life we had produced. I was gripped.

In the days that followed, the children were, I felt, humouring me a little. (Whose craze was this?)

I surprised myself with my enthusiasm for these creatures. I explained to any adult who would politely listen that it is like looking at the beginning of the world. The extraordinary thing is to consider life that is so see-through, provisional and futile. The sea monkeys are a lyrical joke - they barely exist at all.

In the neighbouring receptacle, the triops were rather more robust. They doubled in size (a pinch of peppery food per fish) every day and the children were impressed by their thuggish, ill-favoured looks. They are carnivores and had helped themselves to each other, leaving us with two survivors. Triops can grow to four centimetres long. Out with the ruler: ours was already two-and-a-half centimetres.

After three weeks, the instructions recommend the addition of sand: 'Your triops will love digging.' It was only after the children had gone to bed that I noticed the smaller triop was dead on his new beach and within an hour deliquescing into a ghost fish.

I arranged a burial - straight into the dustbin. There was only one fish left. Ought it not to have a name? Ted, who is five and the official owner of the triops, had referred to the pair as 'big whoppa' and 'medium-sized whoppa'. Triops are 'hermaphrodites with a pair of white brood pouches located between the upper legs'. My husband thought it best to give the surviving triop a gender-neutral name - Lesley.

Lesley died this morning. This is his/her obituary. Ted said that Lesley had been lonely and that it was time to die. It was good, he said, that we were still alive. Most adults tend to be more upset by the continuing life of these creatures than by their expiry. For them, there is reassurance: 'The natural life span of the triops is about six to 12 weeks'.

What I have been keeping to myself is this news: 'During this time, they may lay eggs in the sand. When your triops have died, pour the water away and leave the sand to dry out for about a month. Then add more water to the tank and you could get a second generation!'